One If By Land
by sunsolace
Summary: In the wake of Blind Betrayal, dangerously short on allies and safe hiding spots, there's really only one place Danse can turn to. And he doesn't like it one bit. Kmeme prompt fill.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Spoiler warning for Blind Betrayal (obvs). This fic got a little (and by a little I mean a lot) out of hand, so please bear with the lengthy set up. Also shout out to ScorpioSkies for being a tremendous help while I was writing this!

* * *

Another day in the Commonwealth, another disaster. At this point, Nathan can't rouse surprise from its den where it hibernates beside normalcy.

For three days he and Danse have tracked south from Listening Post Bravo in a strategically convoluted fashion. It's always a trade-off; Boston offers more cover, but it also offers more opportunities to get your clock cleaned. Skirting the edge of Cambridge is a risky, yet unfortunately necessary, move. Tonight's hidey-hole conceals them from passersby and the evening breeze but little else. The ruined apartment is three stories up—high enough to avoid wandering ferals, but not so high they'd be pinned in this position. Also gives a decent view, for whatever that's worth these days.

Nathan peers around the crumbling wall to scan the street below. Hardly a peep from a pile of rubble. Just the way he likes it. The sun has since slipped under the horizon with barely a show—only a pale band of blue along the western sky—and abandoned them to the fickle mercy of the nighttime chill.

Danse has wrangled their makeshift campsite to something that might almost pass muster, if you squint. Two tins of Cram sit warming by the fire that offers just enough light for Danse to take inventory. The man's always been reserved but now he's barely present, merely cycling through the motions necessary for survival. His eerie calm from the bunker leeched away in the hours after Maxson retreated, unsatisfied, but Nathan doesn't know if this _blankness_ is an improvement.

He lowers himself beside Danse. "Hey."

Stretching his legs towards the fire, Nathan bumps their shoulders together. Danse pauses in his task, turning his head just enough to glimpse Nathan out of the corner of his eye, then continues counting ammunition. But he shifts so they're pressed more firmly side-by-side.

Progress.

With Danse on one side and Nathan's laser rifle on the other, they sit in the soupy, gray quiet with too much to say. No matter how hard Nathan tries, even with his front-row seat to the whole shitshow, he can't imagine what Danse is going through. But Danse's ribs press into his side with every breath, his weight heavy and, more importantly, _alive_. After Danse's recent near miss, he's taken to counting Danse's heartbeats and thanking any deity that might be listening. _One-two three-four..._

When Nathan closes his eyes, he can still see Maxson's pistol arm extending.

Giving Danse's shoulder a squeeze, Nathan ducks his head to kiss his temple. Danse briefly leans into his side, and Nathan almost thinks they can have a moment of peace.

Then Danse's hand flexes and curls into a fist, and he breaks away to pack all nonessentials. He won't look at Nathan. "If we expect to move out at 0500 hours, we need a plan."

"Whatever the monster, we face it together. Beyond that I'm fresh out of ideas, buddy."

With the Brotherhood cementing their hold on the Commonwealth, a task made easier by their uncontested control of the air, it's now damn hard for two well-known soldiers to get by undetected.

And then there's the Institute—and Shaun.

Closing his eyes, Nathan pinches the bridge of his nose. Maybe Danse isn't the only one who's lost these days. Their enemies are stacking up, and there are few who would extend a hand to a synth. But he knows this much: Maxson, the Brotherhood, the Institute—they can all go to hell if they look at Danse and see a machine.

"Something's troubling you, soldier."

"It's fine. You've got enough on your plate." Whatever Nathan's problems, they don't hold a candle to Danse's—

Not a candle—a _lantern_. Danse's problem, he might just be able to help after all. Or rather, he might be able to find someone who can do what he can't. "Don't hit me, but I had an idea."

"Just how ludicrous is it, that you're prefacing this with a request I refrain from violence?"

Nathan clears his throat. "I know some, uh, people that might be able to help. With your… situation."

Danse scoffs. "And who would assist a machine?"

"The Railroad." There. He said it.

It's not often Danse is shocked into silence. His face slackens and the whites of his eyes bold in the dark while mouth works soundlessly for several moments until he reclaims his voice. "You can't be serious! They are dangerously misguided, liberating machines that are convinced they're people. Their naivete would kill us all!"

Nathan's heart twists behind his ribs. "Given the circumstances, don't you think you should reconsider your stance on 'machines that think they're people'?"

"And what do you know about it?" Danse snaps. "I just learned my entire life is a sham. I can't even trust my own damn memories! Everything I fought for in the Brotherhood—and _I_ was the enemy the whole time."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Nathan draws in a breath and holds it a moment. "Sorry. You're right, I have no idea what must be going through your head right now. I just—" he stops, collects himself. "Human or no, you're a person, Danse. Please don't doubt that."

A muscle in Danse's face twitches. "The next time you're on the Prydwen, could you... do something for me?"

"Whatever you need."

"Check the honor roll for Cutler. I need to— to know that he was real."

 _Ah._ Nathan swallows. Nods. "Sure thing, buddy."

Danse stares at the wall. His eyes flicker, but his expression remains inscrutable. "Why do you believe contacting the Railroad would be a viable strategy?"

Nathan spreads his hands. "If anyone in the Commonwealth can help you, it would be them. Hell, they've seen a lot of confused synths. They could have answers for you." Seeing he isn't convinced, Nathan sighs. "Look, Danse. If you don't want to talk to them, that's your decision. I'll shut up about it if you want me to. But the Railroad is an option."

Danse sighs, and it carries a weary edge. "Do you honestly believe they'd help me? The Brotherhood is their enemy."

"You don't have to be."

He hesitates. Then his gray eyes harden, flash with steel. "No. If I can never again step onto the Prydwen alive—" Danse's breath catches, then he grits out, " _fine_. But I won't betray the Brotherhood or Elder Maxson."

The man is too damn loyal for his own good.

"Or maybe I could also make some delicate inquiries at the Institute, see if there's anything we can learn there?" Nathan should probably do so regardless if only to investigate the genetics involved, considering the Institute's primary subject.

"Don't put yourself in danger," Danse rumbles. "Not for me."

"Danse—" But from the way he looks to the fire, his face opaque, it's clear he doesn't want to talk about it anymore. So Nathan changes tracks. "Come here, you."

Grabbing Danse's hand, he curls their fingers and they roughhouse for a few moments. Before Danse can claim his latest victory, Nathan squeezes his hand. "You know, all this explains why you're the Prydwen's undisputed arm wrestling champion."

Danse makes a noise somewhere between a snort and a scoff. "Is that a consolation prize?"

"If we're ever short of caps, we could set up a betting pool in some bar—"

Then Danse goes tense. Holds up a hand. "Shh. I heard something." He cocks his head, eyes sharp on the vacant space that gives them an open-air view of the street. Then he's on his feet, stamping out the fire with rifle in hand.

Nathan leans out around the broken wall, the stock of his rifle pressed into his shoulder. Danse's senses outstrip his own—for obvious reasons, in hindsight—but he catches a ghostly shimmer of white at the end of the street.

"Hostiles sighted. Haven't detected us yet."

From the way Danse's eyes glimmer in the dark, there's no question whether they'll engage.


	2. Chapter 2

After stripping down camp, they descend the exterior stairs in time to see what street the hostiles turn down. Danse thumbs the safety off his rifle, and its priming whine makes his palms itch. No matter the hell of doubt he's caught in, _this_ is within his control.

Gunfire punctures the night. Danse pursues the sound around the block with Nathan at his flank. Ten hunchbacked figures swarm a Red Rocket stop, only to be knocked back by a second hail of bullets. Rapid fire, likely some kind of heavy weapon.

Danse is already shooting before their shrieks confirm them to be feral ghouls. "Target acquired!"

Ever since Haylen caught him en route to the firing range, her face white under her freckles, and crushed his world everything has felt distant. Frustration fills him now, bridling at the cruelty of the universe and the bastards that made him, and it's a grounding force. Annihilating these ghouls will be a pleasure.

Cover is useless against these beasts so Danse holds his ground. Nathan throws himself behind a wall to avoid being hit by the third gunner. Another staccato drill of gunfire and two of the filthy creatures stay down. Hammered from both sides, the ghouls whirl to determine the closer threat. One scrambles on all fours—sights Danse. With a shriek it tears across the asphalt, attracting two more to follow. Loading a fresh fusion cell, he fires at the trio and knocks the legs out from under one. A well-placed shot from Nathan drops the second. The third closes in with a fresh snarl, arms stretching.

As Danse backs up he becomes painfully aware he's without power armor. Ten feet. Five.

He aims higher and the ghoul topples. Even knowing a headshot was a needless risk, he can't quash the measure of achievement. Nathan claims the last shot and the ghoul careens to the ground with a charred chest.

With every dead ghoul, the Wasteland is a safer place. Danse can take satisfaction from that, at least. A brief sweep of the area and he calls, "Hostiles eliminated!"

Movement from the Red Rocket truck stop. Danse keeps his rifle raised, nerves alight for any sign of intent. The third gunner could be anyone—friendly or hostile. They vault over the low-set window. What first catches Danse's attention is their streak of silver hair like lightning, stark against their dark umber skin. A foolish choice of color that only serves to make them a more obvious target. Likely a scavenger or mercenary, judging by their rough attire. But he has to reassess their capability when he sees their heavy weapon—a minigun.

The figure pulls up short a dozen feet away, just behind an overturned car. So they aren't completely foolish. "Thanks, boys." A low, feminine voice.

Beside him, Nathan lowers his rifle and, at a meaningful look, Danse reluctantly follows suit. He keeps a finger on the trigger and watches.

"Easy there," Nathan calls. "We're not here for any trouble. Not from you, at least."

"Good, because you don't want to mess with me or mine." She hefts the minigun with a single arm—a feat that alerts a quiet instinct in the back of Danse's mind. He's served with some of the best humanity has to offer; seen soldiers of all sizes and body types. That casual display of strength should be beyond the capabilities of someone of her size and physique.

Danse is ready to demand she state her intentions when Nathan mutters to himself, "I know her. That guard… the one whose name starts with G. Gladness? Glower?" Bracing for the worst, he raises his voice: "Glory, was it?"

"One and only," she calls back. "If it isn't the hotshot who iced the courser."

This situation is becoming stranger by the minute, and Danse doesn't like it. He looks between them with a narrow gaze. "Explain how you know each othe—"

"Glory, is that you?"

Danse has his rifle raised before he identifies the voice's source as non-hostile. A white face leans around a nearby doorway to search the dark street. When he spots them, the young man takes a half-step across the threshold and almost trips on the hem of his trousers even though they've already been rolled up several times at the ankle.

Interesting. This Glory must be some kind of guard, even if her employers remain unknown.

"What's going on?" the youth asks.

"Get back inside. It isn't safe yet." While her voice is firm, something in Glory's countenance softens when she addresses the youth.

Another voice from inside, the one hissing: "I _told_ you, H3-78!"

Danse goes still at once. No, she can't be housing a—

Glory steps into his line of sight, blocking the youth from easy aim. Raising chin and minigun alike, she crowds him in a bid for dominance. She's close enough that he can feel her breath on his chin. Danse refuses to budge, yet has to note she's almost on eye level with him. "You boys got a problem with him, you'll have to get through me first."

Nathan reaches out to lower the muzzle of Danse's rifle and after a moment of resistance Danse concedes. He cuts through Nathan's reassurances with, "That sounded like a synth designation."

Glory rolls onto the balls of her feet. Her expression turns opaque, even if her voice takes on a strangely light tone. "In the Institute, they don't give you a name."

There aren't many things Danse has been able to hold onto in his life—or necessarily wished to—but one of the only things he carried from Rivet City is his name. Yet even that he can't claim as his own. His true name isn't even a _name_ but a number. He feels sick. "Of course not. That would be… wasted sentiment on their machines."

Beside him, Nathan shifts, about to reach for him, but is arrested by Danse's cutting gaze. An encounter with a potential hostile is hardly the time for comfort, though a not-insignificant part of him appreciates the sentiment. With an exhale that doesn't qualify as a sigh, Nathan settles more firmly into his boots.

Glory's jaw tightens and her fingers clench on her weapon. "Why name your toaster? Or your hammer? That's all we are to them. We ain't human, but we sure aren't machines."

In a heartbeat Danse's perception of her changes, knowing he's no longer looking at a _who_ but a _what_. Like him. Disbelief butts against dismay. He searches her for any evidence of her artificial construction. And yet her most striking features are her intrepid resolve and level gaze. Nothing betrays what she truly is.

But then, that's the point. The perfect machine. Able to replicate a human so well _Danse_ had no idea what he is.

"You're one of them? You're a _synth_?"

Glory looks him square in the eye. "You bet. Got the 'made in the Institute' stamp on my ass and everything."

Her blunt—shameless—admission stymies him. Danse can only stare at her and wonder how. She knows what she is and yet—

And Nathan hasn't reacted, which can only mean he already knew from their prior encounter. He knew, and didn't destroy the machine as he is meant to. "What are the two of you to each other?"

"Met once a while back," Nathan answers. "Her people lent me a hand."

While it isn't a lie, it is evasive—and that does not reassure Danse any. "You. Glory. What's your purpose here?" Purpose. Just a week ago, he had one. To be reduced to _this_ is—painful.

"Getting my guys to safety," she answers.

Her _synths_ , and she a synth herself. Likely a Railroad agent, then. Thus far they have remained elusive but, as Nathan pointed out, the Railroad count among the few who actively aid synths. "What do you hope to achieve? Do you think one escaped synth will change anything?"

Glory remains undaunted. "My people will be free. Every last one of them."

"Speaking of," Nathan intercedes, "do you guys need a hand, wherever you're going?"

"Just what do you think you're doing, soldier?" Danse hisses.

"Helping," Nathan grits back.

Glory cocks her weight on one hip, looking between them. "I need to get my guys across the river. You don't need to know the details. You're in or you're out, but decide quick."

Danse is galled despite himself. "Unarmed noncombatants with only one escort? That's tactically unsound. If you're overwhelmed, your charges would be in grave danger."

Glory snorts. "Yeah, well, we may already be up shit creek—look at you, half-ready to shoot them yourself."

Nathan jumps in, giving Danse a beseeching look. "All the more reason to help out, right, buddy? It's not like we've got anywhere else to be."

Danse couldn't feel more sour if someone wrung out a lemon on his tongue. " _Fine_."

The synths' cover is a long-abandoned apartment block. Not two but three of them huddle in the living room behind a moldy couch. The Brotherhood teaches that synths are the ultimate threat to humanity: abominations of machinery that seek to infiltrate what remains of humanity and destroy it from the inside out. Danse never anticipated these… cowering wretches. How can their ilk be a threat to humanity when they can't even travel without an armed escort? They don't even have their own _weapons_.

And yet—they are hunted because of their nature. As he is.

Aside from the youth, there's a tanned woman with short-shorn blonde hair and a brown man with an unkempt beard and beanie to warm his bald head. Searching the array of faces, it hits Danse all at once that Nathan may be the the only human in the room. And yet Nathan doesn't appear perturbed at the prospect. Foolish. So very foolish.

The last man says, "Glory! You're alright!"

"Yeah, I'm fine. We all are."

Danse blurts, "You're all synths?"

They appear nervous—rightfully so—but the blonde works up the nerve to answer, "Human two-point-zero."

A moment of silence. Then Nathan asks, "Did they ever fix that glitch where you walk into a room and forget why you went in there?"

Despite herself, the blonde snorts. "No, sadly."

It never ceases to amaze how Nathan can verbalize flippant remarks at the most inappropriate moments and be well-received. But if it was intended to deescalate the situation, it succeeds. The huddled synths visibly relax and the beanie-clad man, currently pressed into the corner, even takes a half-step out from his protective confine.

Glory says, "My boys here are going to help us out. Night's wasting, so let's move it."

As the others file out to the street, Nathan ducks his head to Danse's ear. "If you have one of those tattoos on your ass, I clearly haven't been looking hard enough."

Danse wants to groan. A scowl must suffice. "That's because my ass is free of any annotations."

"I can double check for you later. Just to be sure."

"Helpful."

"That's me. I'm a helper." Nathan ducks out of strike range, just in case.

Glory leads their party south, opting to travel through grass-choked alleys whenever one presents itself. That spot between Danse's shoulder blades itches with three unknown synths behind him; he must divide his attention between the street, Glory, and any indication of hostility behind him. Nathan bumps his shoulder and peels off to the guard the rear, and it becomes easier for Danse to focus knowing his back is protected.

The roads are cluttered with tripping hazards that prove to be particularly effective on those unfamiliar with the surface. Danse raises an eyebrow at the bathtub full of tires that has somehow made its way to the middle of the street, but he has to dismiss the oddity lest he become distracted. Glory directs her charges to hide under the workbench in an open garage while she scouts ahead to ensure the main street is clear—but not before she levels Danse and Nathan each with a look that promises pain if any harm comes to her charges.

Her devotion to them is admirable, even if Danse has to clamp down on the urge to rise to her threat.

She returns reporting negative contacts. Even so, they cross the road at a run, reaching a terrace where someone has gone to the effort of cultivating mutfruit bushes in the planters. A short set of stairs drops them onto another wide street, and recognition pricks at Danse. Looping around Cambridge Crater forces them within the vicinity of Greentech Genetics. The building has been grafted into the old suburb with no regard for the existing architecture. An eyesore to be certain. When they pass under its shadow, the night feels colder.

Around the corner, a truck blocks the road which forces them to detour down the next street. The back of Danse's neck prickles and he glances up. No snipers, no movement. They're halfway down the street when—

"Get 'em!"

Gunfire echoes off the burgundy bricks. They scatter for cover—except for H3-78, who locks up. With a curse, Danse drags him into cover, puts his own body between the youth and the raiders—and sees a second hunting party pouring down the other end of the street. Glory swears, wheeling, and her minigun snarls with equal fury. Among the volley of bullets is cold blue laser fire. So an Institute patrol have counted among their previous victims. But there'll be no victory for these dogs here tonight.

"We need to fall back to a defensible position—that lobby!" Danse shouts, pitching his voice to be heard above the din. But it isn't until Glory snaps at the synths to _run_ that they bolt.

"I'll cover them!" Nathan crouches behind a large pile of rubble, firing down the street. His dark clothes offer some camouflage from the flanking raiders behind him; their fire isn't even close to his position. Danse falls back reluctantly, covering Nathan's back as much as he can.

The apartment lobby makes for a poor position, with three oversized glass walls that have been ground to sand on the tiles. Limited cover. The reception counter is long enough for all of their party to hide behind. H3-78 curls into a ball with his hands over his ears, flinching away when Danse bumps his leg. Nathan's the last to reach the lobby; Danse's heart hammers as loud as the rattling bullets outside. Relief steals his breath when Nathan slams into place behind the counter, unharmed.

Loading a fresh fusion cell, Danse leans up to pick a target as they close in. Jeers and whoops betray the raiders' locations—which become shouts and screams when Danse makes his first confirmed kill.

Glory draws in a bolstering breath. Vaulting over the counter, she sprints to one of the window frames—a brick pillar wide enough to hide her. It earns her a laser burn to the shoulder and better position to mow down one cluster of raiders. But even with her daring maneuver, they remain pinned down. Almost a dozen hostiles remain, maybe more, holding the advantage through sheer numbers despite their lack of coordination. Danse's curse is lost in the thunderous rattle from Glory's minigun, ripping through air and flesh alike.

Movement at the corner of his eye. Nathan's already twisting to fire; he has to duck behind the counter in a hail of encroaching gunfire. With a snarl, Danse drops one enemy before he too is forced back into cover. Too close.

The raiders reassess and close in on a closer target: Glory, now out in the open, singlehandedly staving off the other raider group.

"Cover me!"

" _Danse_ —!"

He shoulders into Glory, knocking her back behind the pillar, chips flying from the bricks. There isn't enough room for him behind cover, but their combined fire in the next volley gives the raiders pause.

A snarl from behind him, then a molotov cocktail sails past his ear. It connects with a closest raider in a burst of liquid fire, glass flinging in red-hot knives to stab nearby foes. Even as their comrade's screams scare the other foes back into cover, Danse puts the immolated raider out of his misery.

With the tables turned, they drive back the last four raiders and pick them off one by one, until at last there are no screams or yellow flashes save for the ghostly afterimages rolling over Danse's vision. Even after he calls the area secure, their charges remain behind the counter until Glory urges them to their feet, where they stand in a nervous cluster. She then shakes herself out, probing several tears in her thick jacket, and checks her weapon. Her weighted gaze lingers on Danse.

A twist of pain in his shoulder heralds the return of Danse's awareness, and then Nathan is by his side. Drawing in an uneven breath, Nathan insists on giving him a once over. He earned a few laser burns that sting when they pull and black scorches on his outer coat; Danse concedes to first aid at Nathan's urging.

Nathan murmurs, "Don't forget you aren't wearing power armor anymore."

"As if I could forget."

When they move out, Glory hastens their pace. H3-78 lags behind, tripping with greater frequency than before, and the blonde hooks a hand around his elbow to steady him. The whites of her eyes are stark in the night. The beanie-clad man hunches into his jacket, head lowered until his beard touches his chest.

For his part, Danse remains at the vanguard with Glory, on high alert for any more threats. Keeping his gaze on their surroundings, he asks, "Is this opposition typical for your operations?"

Glory grunts. "Normal shit we deal with is raiders and ferals. So yeah. Depends on whether the coursers are on the ball."

At mention of _coursers_ , the three synths behind them startle—one even squeaks. Danse suspects H3-78.

Glory turns to face them without stopping or even slowing. "Hey. Look at me, all of you." She waits until she has their attention to say, "The coursers aren't getting their hands on you. I promise."

No one dares to contradict her, but neither are they convinced.

These synths are right to fear the coursers. They could hardly stand against the lowliest Brotherhood initiate, let alone the Institute's finest. Yet it introduces an unsavory thought: what if the Institute ever discovers M7-97, their rogue property? He checks his rifle, bolstered by grim resolve. They'll never reclaim him alive.

The intersection is blocked by barricades strung with grisly trophies—the source of the raiders in this area. Only four raiders sit around the biggest fire behind the fortifications, their numbers depleted; they haven't even bothered to post guards on the perimeter which speaks of either laziness or arrogance. Either way, they join their fellows in a quick and brutal engagement. The _turrets_ prove to be a bigger threat.

The barricades the raiders erected to bottleneck the bridge are constructions of plywood and pilfered shelves that are almost sturdy, standing twice as tall as Danse. Weaving between the wooden walls, they step onto the bridge. It's in poor condition, weakened by a number of crumbling sections that offer glimmer of the dark, silent river below. Fortunately the other side is clear of raiders.

Halfway across, the beanie-clad man steps and lurches—

On instinct, Danse's arm snaps out to grab him before he steps in the pothole that plummets straight into the river.

The man— _synth_ , Danse internally corrects himself—shudders and lets out a long breath. "That was close. Thanks."

Danse releases him at once and retreats a few steps. "You can't lose focus of your surroundings."

South of the river, the streets become tighter and the buildings taller, competing for space on the sidewalk while twisted hunks of metal clutter the streets. They're approaching super mutant territory; Danse's shoulders pull inward and he tightens his grip on his rifle. The old resentment burns in his gut, but hunting those monsters is not their purpose tonight. Glory must be aware of the danger, as she leads them in a wide loop around the known hives in Financial District.

Not long after there is a heaviness in the air that precedes dawn. When their party is only a few blocks from Goodneighbor, Glory instead enters the foyer of Water Street Apartments. A _Now Leasing_ banner in black and yellow still hangs above the double doors. The walls to the apartments on the ground floor have crumbled, allowing them to secure the area with minimal effort.

Glory ushers her charges into one of the ruined apartments and distributes water canisters. While they drink, she approaches Danse and Nathan. "Not bad, hotshots. I'll walk 'em the rest of the way. Thanks for the assist."

The beanie-clad man looks up. "You two leaving? Thanks. Never dreamed there would be so many humans willing to help us."

"It was good to talk to someone," the blonde agrees while H3-78 waves from the couch.

Danse clears his throat and shifts his weight. The praise fits oddly, like a coat too tight around the shoulders, when just a week ago he would have executed them all without a thought.

"You guys stay safe," Nathan says, and Danse wonders how he can find it in him to smile. "Good luck with your new lives."

Glory stretches her arms. "If either of you boys want to help out more, find the Railroad. I could use a few more hours of sleep."

First Nathan, and now this Glory. There will be no rendezvous with the Railroad. "That won't be likely," Danse retorts. "If you're secure here, we'll take our leave."

Back on the street, he draws in a deep, shuddering breath. That woman—that synth. She must know how to live with her artificial nature. The thought niggles at him, wears at his resolve, but he can't turn around and ask. Learning he is a machine has brought nothing but pain. Spreading such sensitive intel serves no purpose but to invite more danger on himself. And on Nathan, who has already placed himself in grave personal risk.

No. If there's one price too high, it's injury to Nathan.

What Danse knows of the Railroad: they're an undercover organization of unknown size and strength who seek to liberate the Institute's machines, employing guerrilla tactics to achieve their ends. Elder Maxson deemed them a threat, at high risk of interfering with the Brotherhood's efforts against the Institute.

Seeking out the Railroad? It's too ludicrous to consider.

And yet.

Danse tells himself that it's a tactical retreat, parting ways now Glory has no need of backup, and not because he is afraid.


	3. Chapter 3

Since Danse vetoes Goodneighbor, they spend daylight hours taking sleeping shifts in a dusty flat and emerge onto the street at dusk. They traipse from Financial District to the Waterfront, where buildings jut right up against the new coastline. Modern constructions in other parts of the city fared better than the older buildings here, where brick and mortar skin has peeled away in clumps to clog the street. Clouds curtain the sky like dull iron welded together from scraps. Visibility is poor because of it, but also grants them an easier time of hiding.

A glassy sort of exhaustion has settled over Nathan, all smooth planes and rough edges. So he's a half-second slow when Danse holds up a fist.

"Hold up. I think we're being stalked."

Nathan turns to sweep the area behind them, but there are only rusted stairs and plywood ramps grafted onto one vintage building. Rifles ready, they duck into cover behind a particularly egregious pile of rubble that sits like a small lopsided mountain leaning against a shell of a building. Sinking onto his stomach, Nathan crawls up to the apex of the pile. A piece of splintered wood bites into his stomach, but he doesn't dare sit up. Danse crawls up beside him.

In the distance, cruel shouts pierce the air. But that isn't what holds Danse's attention.

White torchlight precedes three figures marching through the town square—the largest of which stands almost twice as tall as its fellows. With each footstep, mechanized thumps vibrate through the loose bricks under Nathan's hands.

Nathan and Danse look at each other. The Brotherhood changed their patrol routes.

Nathan whispers, "They can't find you."

He can see the whites of Danse's eyes. "They can't find _you_."

Nathan's near-silent laugh is wrung out like a scoff. Unbelievable. "I'm not the one they'll shoot on sight."

"You're the one who has to answer to Elder Maxson."

Something skitters down a nearby street. More footsteps, these ones loose and quick like clattering gravel. Another shout, this one gleeful. Nathan hunkers down even lower. Something crashes nearby with a glassy tinkle—a flare of yellow light crests the rubble mountain like a sunrise. Gunfire follows the jeering cries of raiders, which turn to panicked screams. The two Aspirants have found cover and now hammer the raider gang while the Knight in power armor encroaches into their territory shot by shot.

Every line in Danse's body goes tense. Breathing harsh, his head tilts so a sliver of golden light slashes across his stony eyes. Assessing the battlefield. "We should assist them. What raiders lack in discipline they make up for in viciousness."

Another shout, and Nathan flinches when an Aspirant drops. His own breaths, hot and humid, bounce back into his face from the metal awning inches from his nose. But he shakes his head even as his gut clenches. "This is our chance to escape."

Danse's jaw tightens, eyes flashing. "We can't abandon them. Those men could die down there!"

"I'm sorry."

Clashing emotions chase each other over his face. He looks away from the patrol. Swallows. "You're right. Let's move out."

Only the street they follow bends around to the open square where gunfire and screams roll together. The raiders have scattered under the pressure, their numbers lost to flickering shadows cast by trash fires. Pride or bloodlust keeps them from ceding their territory entirely. They prowl the square, take cover in buildings, dart between rusted cars. So when Nathan and Danse dash across the corner of the square to another street, they think they made it until—

Heavy footsteps pursue them, and the Knight rounds the corner. The headlamp swishes in the dark, a white sun to sear through Nathan's raised hand like the overbright lights in the Institute.

There's a moment of silence where they all stare at each other.

The headlamp bounces between Nathan and Danse, leaving trails of green-blue spots along his retinas.

"Knight—" Then: " _You!_ "

Nathan barks, "Hold your fire!"

"They said you executed this—abomination!" the Knight snaps. "What is the meaning of this?"

Stepping in front of Danse, Nathan shifts the rifle in his arms. The grip is worn and warm under his hands with its own fingerprint, while the faint whine of the laser charge sings in time with the pulse in his wrists. Squaring his shoulders as if facing his first drill sergeant, Nathan says, "I can't let you harm him."

" _Nathan_ —!"

A hand grabs the scruff of his neck, yanking him aside as _traitor!_ fires across the alley, followed by the whine of a primed laser. Danse is quicker on the draw. The Knight actually staggers back from the hit, but recovers in seconds. There isn't enough cover for both of them behind the overturned car—their shoulders bumping, knees knocking as they crouch together.

"Get inside! I'll cover you!" Teeth bared, Danse launches himself up to trade fire with the Knight. Nathan bolts through the doorway behind him and leans around the empty window frame to join in. While it's damn hard for him to miss the hulking target at this range, T-60 power armor allows the Knight to be relentless, shrugging off the barrage as he closes in on their position. Danse too is forced to retreat into the building.

"I don't want to fight you!" Danse shouts. His voice bounces and warps with the air-sizzling heat of laser energy.

"Then die, synth!"

They continuously lose ground, forced to fall back up the stairs while unloading several fusion cells' worth of laser energy into the Knight. Nathan urges Danse to run, and he does only because dallying only puts Nathan in more danger. At the top of the stairwell, Nathan leans out to trade fire and almost loses his head. The smell of burning hair curls under his nose. Dropping to one knee, Nathan flings a frag grenade down the stairs and bolts. A hollow boom shakes the floor. Rattles its wooden bones.

When they reach the roof, they're pinned. The Knight is relentless, preceded by the creaking shudder of his pounding foots steps below. He emerges onto the rooftop firing, forcing Nathan and Danse to scatter in opposite directions. By Nathan's count, there are at least two suit breaches, the Knight's armor scratched and blackened. One leg drags.

"Ad victorium!" The Knight turns to hammer Danse's cover with fury-red laser fire, exposing the back of his power armor.

Nathan's aim is true.

The fusion core glows orange under his barrage, the Knight turning but it's too late. Praying Danse has enough cover, Nathan drops to the ground. A belch of fire and the acrid smell of superheated metal burns his nose. As the emergency overrides kick in, unlatching the suit, the Knight topples backwards—straight into Nathan's line of fire.

With every moment, the trembling adrenaline recedes, conceding to the now-quiet night. Nathan draws in one shuddering breath, then another.

Bereft of its controller, the suit is nothing more than an empty shell. The headlamp shines onto the floor, bright and blank like a white eye. Danse crouches by his fallen brother, bowing his head. Nathan watches with cold steel squeezing his lungs.

"What have I done?"

Nathan wants to look away, to shy away from the realization lurking just beyond the haze of adrenaline. But one thought pierces him: Danse didn't do this.

He reaches to touch Danse's shoulder. There are no words. No apologies. Only their hearts punching in their chests. No sign of the Aspirants, if they're even still alive. But another engagement—fighting more of their brothers—would be—

Nathan hauls Danse to his feet. "We need to go."

They make it around the block, into an alley with scattered cafe chairs, before Danse leans against the wall, breathing hard. He won't look Nathan in the eye. "They're right. I am an abomination. What I did—" his voice cracks.

"What _we_ did was defend ourselves. That isn't on you." They both know who made the kill shot.

He can't get the blood and carbon out of his nose.

Drawing in a shuddering breath, Nathan bumps his forehead against Danse's, ignoring the sweat and grime that paint their faces. "I'm not losing anyone else. Never again, do you hear me?" He's already lost one love to a well-placed shot. He doesn't need to go for two.

"If it weren't for me, you never would have had to make that call."

Nathan shakes his head one too many times. "We have to go before his backup arrives."

The night is blacker when they return to the street. There's no time for subtlety—they run. Flee with little heed for direction, spurred by the breeze that dries the sweat on their faces, down the streets where they even startle a damn radstag. As it bounds away across a rusted playground, Nathan careens to a halt, instincts shying away from the open space. Danse stops behind him, so close Nathan can feel the air change. His heart drums in his chest.

Once upon a time, Nathan Holt was a good soldier—jumped when he was ordered to, shot who he was ordered to, marched how he was ordered to. But no matter how relieved he'd been to find order in the Brotherhood, to find something familiar in this Wasteland—

No matter easy comfort of ranks and drills and tightass superiors, the bladed insignia imprinted on their armor, the foreign battle cry; they were always an echo shadowing him—a reminder that Nathan is the last of the 108th.

If he'd still been that good soldier, he would never have made a pass on his commanding officer.

He sure as hell wouldn't drag said commanding officer into a kiss in the middle of hostile territory. It's a graceless thing with too many teeth, yet Danse is more than willing, returning every ounce of desperation with his own. Nathan presses his advantage, nipping at Danse's lower lip until he opens his mouth and their tongues slide together. His thumbs stroke along Danse's jaw, scraping over his short beard. But Danse's hands fist in Nathan's collar, shoving him back until cold bricks press into his shoulders, and he leans forward to claim Nathan's mouth with bruising force. Between their lashing tongues and wrestling hands, Nathan's fear curls inward into a hard knot and eases.

And for a brief moment—respite.

Danse touches his brow to Nathan's, squeezing his eyes shut. A rough exhale brushes over Nathan's lips, making him shiver. "If anything ever happened to you, I don't know what I'd do."

Nathan does. He can still hear Nora's smoky laugh, along with Kellogg's death rattle. Running his thumb along Danse's cheek, he curls his hand around the back of his neck. They remain like that, breaths harsh and hearts crashing. Nathan counts. _One-two-three-four one-two-three-four._

Danse is the first to tear himself away, but his retreat is a slow, reluctant one. Turning away, to the direction of the Brotherhood patrol. He looks so much smaller without power armor to encase him. To smooth away the rough edges of humanity that lie beneath a soldier's poise.

Danse stares out at the shell that is Boston. "We... we can't keep running."

Nathan watches his back, searching for even the slightest hint of Danse's intentions. There's the stiff arch of his neck, along with the shame that slumps his shoulders from his old straight-backed pride.

Nathan ventures, "A safe place to sleep might be a start."

"I can't keep living one day at a time and neither can you. As long as you're with me, the Brotherhood—is a danger to you. To us both. And then there's the Institute. They must be stopped at all costs." Danse stares, blankly, at the ground. "That synth. Glory. She serves with the Railroad. She was proud of it, even." Danse's expression cracks, twists. While his mouth tightens in disapproval, his eyebrows lift in what could be described as bafflement. And, maybe, there's a shadow of envy haunting his eyes.

Nathan arches an eyebrow. "And just where are you going with this?"

"Contacting the Railroad was _your_ suggestion, if I recall."

Nathan raises his hands. "Easy there. I'm not criticizing you."

Just yesterday, he'd hoped Danse might consider the Railroad's help. But now Danse stands, head lowered, looking so utterly _defeated_ , and Nathan regrets the events that force him to consider their help.

"I'm a danger to you, but I can't let you find trouble on your own. I can't wander aimlessly or sit in that bunker for the rest of my life. I— I don't know what the hell to do, Nathan. So this is the only option I have left." Danse gives him a piercing look. "Do not mistake my intentions. This is strictly recon."

"And if they can help?"

For a moment his expression is lost. "I don't know." Then his face closes over again. "But I can't betray the Brotherhood, even now. We're going in to acquire intel only."

Nathan coughs to conceal a smile. "Sure, Danse. Let's go. The church is a ways off."

Speaking of plans, he casts about for an explanation that'll satisfy the Railroad. He remembers a little too well how testy Desdemona was about letting him in last time and he'd possessed a courser chip they needed. Pushing off from the wall, he's about to take point when Danse's eyes narrow.

"Wait. You know their location already?"

Caught. "Uh. Yeah?"

" _Why_ have you never mentioned this before?"

"Let's call it… operational prudence."

Danse halts, tightening his grip on his rifle until the muzzle wavers. "The Railroad have been aiding the Brotherhood's enemies, and you've known their location? Their possible numbers and defenses? Yet you never reported it to your superiors?"

"They decoded a courser chip for me. Hell, I never would've made it into the Institute without them. I couldn't stab them in the back!"

A curt huff. "You are unbelievable. But I suppose it might be fortunate for us now."

Their walk is silent after that. Nathan takes point, adjusting their direction so they head north. It's a good thing someone painted a line of red around a collapsed building to connect the Freedom Trail, making it simple to follow, because Nathan's preoccupied with muddied thoughts and a turbulent heart. On grisly repeat, he can hear the shouts of the patrol, the bark of Elder Maxson's execution order, the thunderous crack of Kellogg's pistol.

Danse is similarly occupied, his heavy brows pulled into a scowl, thoughts turned inward. Only years of training remind him to scan their surroundings; the rest of him is bracing for the upcoming meeting.

One breath after another. One foot after another.

A lonely lamp sits at the top of the church's steeple—a tiny light of copper, gas and glass to guide them north. When Nathan slows so does Danse, casting his eyes about, his dark eyebrows slashing down into a fresh scowl. From the memorial courtyard they have a clear view to the bay. Aside from the lanterns that prove human activity, the grounds are deserted. Innocuous, even.

On the church threshold, Danse glances backwards—and is transfixed by the sight. The airport's traffic control tower stands sentinel on the horizon and, in the space behind it, the Prydwen hangs with all the gravity of a star. Despite the crisp stillness, the night feels truly cold for the first time.

While it's too dark too get a good glimpse of his expression, Nathan's heart twists all the same.

"Danse."

He's a silent golem. As motionless as the statue dominating the podium. Then Danse's hand tightens on the handle until it squeaks. With a heavy look over his shoulder, he steps inside the church.

As Nathan follows, he has to wonder if maybe the Railroad should've placed two lanterns up there.

Old North Church, relic that it is, creaks under the weight of disrepair. While Nathan has an uneasy truce with any divine forces, there's something that lingers in the quiet, lurking under the rows of ruined pews, that raises the hairs on the back of his neck. Deposits a niggling unease in the back of his mind. The church is blessedly feral-free, which, aside from obvious reasons, Nathan is thankful for since Danse is already liable to snap the grip from his rifle.

"Easy, buddy. They aren't a threat."

"That remains to be seen."

Ducking under the angled beam that obscures the corridor, Nathan takes the stairs to the crypt two at a time. The temperature drops to a silent chill that edges under his scarf with fingers as cold and raspy as the sand beneath his boots. Spatters of white paint lead them through the labyrinthine turns, illuminated by glowing fungi and the phantom green of Nathan's pip-boy. Despite himself, Nathan keeps a wary eye on the tombs they pass.

If Danse shadows him more closely than strictly necessary, well, neither of them are going to complain. A narrow corridor hides behind one of the crumbling brick pillars; on his first venture into the undercroft, it had taken him hours to find it. On the floor is a painted lantern and an arrow pointing to the brick wall that, as Nathan has since learned, isn't actually a wall.

Danse inspects the wires running from the appropriated Freedom Trail ring to the spot where they disappear into a hole in the wall. "Inventive, if crude."

Nathan spins the dial to the final letter D and presses in the center plate. "Here goes nothing."


	4. Chapter 4

The room is awash in overbright light.

A clever move to give the defenders control of the initial encounter. Danse squints through watering eyes; he doesn't shield his eyes, as much as he would like to, preferring to keep his rifle at the ready even if his sight is compromised. Still, every second it takes for his vision to adjust, the more aware he becomes of his own vulnerability.

Holding an arm up to shield his eyes, Nathan calls, "Hello?"

"You again." A woman's voice cuts through the no-man's land. "What brings you here, this time with a stranger in tow?"

As Danse's vision resolves, he can detect three dark figures backlit by the the floodlights. The slender silhouette in the center is the speaker, while a youth in a blue coat points a pistol at the ground. On the woman's other side is Glory.

It shouldn't be a surprise to see her standing guard with her legs braced to support the weight of her minigun. This is, after all, her organization and her territory. Glory's liquid black gaze sweeps from Nathan to end on Danse. "I'll vouch for him, Desdemona."

That earns her several raised eyebrows, but the currents of the room shift to something that might be in Danse and Nathan's favor. If nothing else, it gives Danse an opportunity to assess their defenses. Glory is both the most heavily armed and protected. If this encounter goes south, her minigun will prove the greatest threat. The other woman—Desdemona—and the youth are equipped with only pistols. Desdemona is the one giving orders, even if she wears nothing to mark her station. If anything, the young man reminds him of a squire on the cusp of adulthood.

"Glory?" Desdemona asks.

"Remember that runner job and the boys who jumped on for the ride?" She jerks her chin in Danse and Nathan's direction. "That was these two."

Desdemona assesses them with a fresh eye. "Helping an escort op? That's more than we ever expect from outsiders. But this doesn't mean we can simply give you free run of HQ for whatever reason you're here."

The corners of Glory's mouth twitch. "Either they're here _to_ help, or they're here _for_ help." She spears Danse with her liquid black gaze and he realizes what a fool he's been.

She _knows._

Danse doesn't know how or when she figured it out, but it sends a shudder down his spine. He tenses, curling his finger around the trigger, anticipating the inevitable move. Only… Glory has made no threat against his person or Nathan's, beyond her obligations to her cause.

He's tired of fear.

"Is that so?" Desdemona reclaims Danse's attention. Her searching gaze shifts from Glory to Danse. "Is she right?"

His breathing stops. A fist clenches around his heart with bruising force while a cold sweat breaks out on his palms. All of this is a bad idea. If he hadn't left the bunker, that Knight would still be alive and Danse wouldn't be about to negotiate with the Railroad. Revealing his true identity has brought nothing but pain—except for Nathan.

Nathan, who has his mouth open to answer, but looks to Danse and pauses. Chagrin crawls across his face.

Glory watches with her dark, knowing eyes. She inclines her head, just slightly.

Distantly, Danse is aware of his body straightening. His jaw is clenched so tightly his teeth are liable to crack at any moment, if they were enamel instead of whatever synthetic compound the Institute used in his creation. "I thought I was human. That turned out not to be the case."

The words burn.

What he never anticipated is how Desdemona's posture shifts between one heartbeat and the next. Her hard edges melt away to something that, while not soft, isn't so stiff. The crinkles around her eyes deepen. "What's your name?"

If this is supposed to be an interrogation, Desdemona has remarkably poor methods. Pity extended towards an unknown—a potential threat, no less—only shows weakness on her part.

Still, he finds himself compelled to answer. "Pala— Danse. Just Danse."

"The circumstances could be better, but it's good to meet you." While that Desdemona's voice is amiable, she secures Danse's attention with all the mesmerizing force of a gathering storm. "No one could ever tell that you're a synth, could they?"

Danse twitches. Not quite a flinch, but close. "Why do you people go to all this effort to help mach— _synths?_ "

She doesn't even hesitate. "Because you _are_ human, in all the ways that matter. What you've suffered, at the hands of the Institute and at the Commonwealth's intolerance, is wrong."

It's a knife to his chest, sliding between his ribs without resistance. Desdemona watches with her level gray gaze, ignorant of the effect of her words. Spoken as if a they are simple truth.

Danse is still reeling when Glory insists, "Dez, we've gotta help. They're here now, and it isn't like pretty boy there hasn't been inside before."

A long moment, then Desdemona nods. A single half-dip of her chin and any remaining weapons are fully lowered. "I don't think I need to remind you we're making an exception for you." This is directed towards Nathan, then she looks back at Danse. "We'll talk more inside."

Nathan moves first, trotting down the stairs with a sideways glance and a hint of a smile as he steps into no-man's land. Danse tracks his progress across the room; his rough leathers—a far cry from his neatly-pressed uniform—are scratched and bloodied, sitting askew on his narrow frame, and the ghost of a limp wobbles his stride. But Nathan is safe, he tells himself. No matter how many times Nathan put himself at risk in recent days, he has suffered no major harm. That's something. Maybe the only good fortune to be had this week.

Danse follows, nerves tight, on alert for any sign of a waiting trap. But the youth backs away to let them up the stairs and Desdemona leads the way into the tunnel behind her with a tilt of her head. Glory falls in step beside Danse and it's—reassuring, somehow. Ahead, warm yellow light and sounds of life spill into the tunnel, stark against the lingering odors and green-gray shadows that press in once they pass the floodlights.

Nathan sidles to Desdemona's side. "Sorry for the new gray hairs. I didn't know how else to get into contact with you."

She gives him a sidelong look. "I'm coming to expect this from you."

Danse steps into the Railroad's headquarters. Out of everything, what he first notices is the temperature, noticeably warmer the moment he crosses the threshold. This base of operations—if it even merits the term—is a crude outpost grafted on top of the pre-existing crypt. Tombs are utilized as tables, judging by the coffee rings and scattered papers, while mattresses have been crammed into every available space along the walls with no heed for drafts or undead rising in the night. Besides the one at his back, pressing clammy air against his neck, there are no visible exits. A number of corners and niches around the room could be used by hostiles as cover; indeed, the cluttered layout would make close-quarters combat a nightmare.

Unlike other sections of the church, this place is well-lit. Lanterns perch on shelves and in corners, out of kicking range. Each one offers a wan circle of gold but together the multitude of lights keep the room at a steady orange that reminds him of a warm sunlit afternoon.

"Cosy for a crypt, isn't it?" Nathan murmurs.

Desdemona clears her throat. "You'll understand that we can't give a tour to people who aren't part of the Railroad."

That doesn't stop Danse from observing as much as he can. By his estimation there are nearly two dozen personnel present, the closest of whom stop and stare at the unfamiliar faces. Someone circles the center table, collecting papers and maps to whisk away while the youth from the entrance scrubs the blackboard on the far wall. Discomfort crawls along Danse's spine at the wary attention, but no one draws a weapon.

He has to ask. "Do all the personnel here believe in your cause?"

Desdemona chuckles. "They wouldn't be here if they didn't."

Glory is one thing, her bias obvious, but all of these people? Danse counts again and finds his initial estimation accurate. He'd known the Railroad was a movement comprised of those who delude themselves into believing machines are people, but it takes on a new dimension as he stands here. Several dozen people in this building alone, fighting for their hopeless cause of freeing synths.

If the Institute doesn't crush them, the Brotherhood will.

The thought is more unsettling than Danse anticipated.

Glory laughs, a sound that's low and resonant like distant thunder. "'Personnel'. Cute."

"So this is the heart of the operation that has harried the Institute?" The Brotherhood's intel on the Railroad has always been patchy despite their best efforts. To think that they've been hunkering in this church the entire time, with no defenses to speak of. Hiding right under Maxson's nose. "Where are the perimeter guards and patrols?"

"Spotlights and guards up top would just be a 'kick me' sign. We've got our defenses," Glory says. She again carries her minigun one-handed in a casual display of inhuman strength.

Indeed, now that Danse thinks to look, he notices an alabaster-pale boy lifting a cooking stove, to a chirrup of thanks from the person— _human_ —who almost dropped it. Danse, at least, has the physique to match his strength.

No reaction from anyone in the room. It's just— _accepted_.

A man who had been working at a large desk flanked by overfilled bookshelves looks from Desdemona to Nathan to Danse and his dark brows pinch together. A white coat, pale against his ochre skin, suggests medical professional or lab technician. "What is this, Desdemona? Our security protocols do not exist for you to flout whenever you see fit. They shouldn't be here."

Nathan is all too blithe when he says, "We- _ell_ , we're here now."

Danse steps on his foot. Hostile territory is not the place to antagonize others with quips. Nevertheless, it's a relief to know at least one person here recognizes Danse and Nathan as potential threats. The man's reservation is, if not welcome, then expected.

Desdemona also shoots Nathan a sharp look. "I'll handle this, Carrington. You speak to PAM. We need those numbers crunched ASAP."

Carrington's mouth thins to a razor's edge, but he obeys. It becomes increasingly evident that Desdemona does not merely control who is permitted entry, but also holds a position of power. Danse examines her more thoroughly, searching for any indication of her rank. With nothing to distinguish her as a leader, she can be lost in the rabble. Civilians never understand the importance of symbols of office.

Desdemona ushers them past the tombs to a corner with seats scavenged from a diner booth. There's a long moment where all parties look at each other, waiting to see who will make the first move. Leaning her gun against the wall, Glory drops down into an armchair and leans forward to rest her elbows on her knees. Nathan heaves himself onto the nearest seat, faux leather cracking as air is displaced from the stuffing. He then turns to Danse an expectant look. Squashing a sigh, Danse sits beside him. The seat is narrower than it appears, forcing their shoulders to bump and their knees to touch. While it may not be professional of him, Danse doesn't mind the contact. It grounds him.

Desdemona leans back against the nearest tomb. "So. What is it you need? We don't usually have a case like yours, but whatever we can do to help, we will."

It's easier this time to tamp down on the rush of disbelief, if only just. Clearing his throat, he shifts in his seat before regaining control of himself. It takes more effort than usual to remain still. Their tolerance of him is foolish. No, more than that: it is incomprehensible. Even with no knowledge of Danse beyond him being a synth, they permit him inside their base. Nathan—has his reasons for his fierce defense. These people—these _humans_ , and he has to acclimatize to the distinction—have no such excuse.

Nathan sits beside him, quietly hopeful, but Danse knows if he cuts this meeting short Nathan will accept it. No, they have come this far—he can't falter now. "I have questions, if you would answer them."

"Of course. Go ahead."

Nate briefly drops his hand to Danse's knee. "Do you want me here?"

"Stay with me." Then he adds: "I'm not letting you wander this place by yourself."

Ducking his head is insufficient for Nathan to conceal his smile and, despite the situation, Danse is warmed by the sight. "Sure, buddy."

Thus bolstered, Danse begins. "What are your standard operations here?"

"We set synths up with new lives on the surface. Offer to smuggle them out of the Commonwealth, even give them a new face and set of memories—"

Her words clatter through his suddenly empty mind like gray pebbles tossed into the depths of a dry well. The moment hangs, the swirling dust motes slowing from their quick tempo. All this time he'd spent wondering how and why the Institute would see fit to give him memories of scavenging the Wasteland, alone, for whatever he could sell for a few measly caps. An experiment, perhaps. Can a machine trick itself into believing it's human? And yet—

"It was you. Not the Institute. You're the bastards who implanted these memories in my head! I can't even tell what's real and what isn't!" Danse's anger is unfocused, spiraling in all directions.

Glory winces. "Aw, shit, you _are_ one of those ones."

Quietly, Desdemona says, "I am sorry. It wasn't supposed to end up like this."

That cuts the anger out from underneath him as quickly as it rose. With a heavy breath, Danse demands, quietly, "Tell me why. Why would you do that to me?"

With a shrouded face, Glory's gaze drifts sideways to the wall. Her mouth is a grim line. "The mem job's optional. If you were given a new set of memories, it's because you asked to have it done."

Danse's world tips again.

 _Asked_ for it. He'd wanted _this._

Not only his memories—maybe his face isn't even his own, either. A sudden rush of despair seizes him. Everything he was, gone; everything he is, a lie. And he chose this. He chokes out, "Why would anyone choose that? Losing everything… for _what?_ "

Glory gives a sloping, one-shouldered shrug. "Safer that way. There's a lot to learn about the surface. One slip is all it takes for some scared mutfruit farmer to put you face-first in a ditch. And…" She shuffles in her seat and fusses with the knife strapped to her thigh. Her voice grows quiet. "The ones that go through with it—they don't want to be afraid anymore."

Danse can't imagine ever being desperate enough to want to wipe it all away.

Unlike him, Glory is self-aware. Which can only mean one thing. "You didn't allow them to take your memories."

"My people deserve to be free. Every last one of them. I'm not running when I can fight."

He almost wishes he never came—but no. Wanting to be ignorant was what caused all this, even if he doesn't remember making that choice. It's a mistake he doesn't care to repeat. Even if he can't completely quash the regret.

Nathan leans forward in his seat. "So this means you did bust Danse out of the Institute, right? Wouldn't someone remember him?"

Before Danse has the time to fully process that idea, Desdemona shakes her head. "Not necessarily. We keep minimum contact with the synths in our care, especially once they've undergone any altering procedures. It's the safest option for everybody involved."

"Besides, too many of our people get iced," Glory adds. She and Desdemona share razor-edges looks, suggesting a private contention between them. "The runners who escorted you could be dead by now."

Someone out there put their life at risk for a synth—for him—and he doesn't even remember their courage. Or their sacrifice, should they have since perished. And it is a sacrifice, he realizes, examining the room once more to observe the Railroad's crude, desperate operation. Danse is surprised by the strength of his own sorrow. "How any of you have survived this long with all the forces arrayed against you, I don't know."

Glory laughs once, a hard sound. "We're stubborn like that."

Danse snorts despite himself. "Clearly you aren't to be underestimated."

This time she smiles, a sliver of white teeth flashing against her umber skin. Last time Danse saw her, he couldn't muster the courage to ask her. This time he won't repeat the mistake.

 _How do you live without fear?_

Steeling his spine, Danse is about to speak—but there's a commotion by the entrance. It is not, in fact, the newcomer who initially attracts attention, but the woman who jumps and swears when he appears beside her.

Lamplight flashes off the sunglasses the newcomer hasn't yet taken off. He spreads his arms wide to the room at large. "Guess who's home? Didja miss me?"

"Sure missed the quiet before you stepped in," Glory calls over her shoulder.

The newcomer approaches and Danse tenses, uncertain of his intentions. "Me? I am as quiet as a shadow on a still winter's night. I am as quiet as a—" He rounds the pillar and his smile becomes fixed. "Oh shit. What's he doing here?"

Beside Danse, Nathan stiffens. Enough of a warning.

Desdemona, however, only begins to sense something amiss. She raises an inquiring eyebrow. "He's here because he needs our help."

"Not our courser-murdering pal. The _other_ he."

Nathan springs to his feet, planting himself between Danse and the room at large, stretching out a hand. "Deacon, wait—"

Deacon leans against a nearby pillar, paying no heed to the crumbling mortar. He folds his arms across his chest—leaving one hand close to a pistol in its underarm holster. "He's only the Brotherhood of Steel's top paladin."


	5. Chapter 5

Pandemonium. Shouts from eavesdropping agents scrape against the walls, attracting yet more attention. The crypt a wash of wide-eyed faces as panic sweeps through their ranks. Some back up while others close in, drawing their weapons.

Danse is on his feet, rifle in hand. Years of training kick in—he's boxed in the corner, with Deacon between him and the entrance. This will be a hard fight. Even if the Railroad's discipline leaves something to be desired. He prepares to engage.

Glory shoulders into Nathan, knocking him back half a step. Before Danse can retaliate, he realizes she too has planted herself between him and her comrades, showing him her back. An easy target, should the situation deteriorate further—and yet, the thought of shooting her leaves a bad taste in his mouth. "Hold it, all of you!" With a deathclaw's speed, Glory catches Deacon's shoulder and stares him down. "He's one of mine."

That sends a ripple through the circle of onlookers. Nathan slowly reaches back to lower Danse's rifle, then rest his hand on Danse's shoulder.

Deacon grasps her meaning immediately; he goes utterly still. "So this is payback, is it? Or… not."

Of all the reactions to Danse's synthhood, that may qualify as the strangest.

An arch look from Glory. "Between the two of us, I'm not the one who shits out lies."

Even with the obscuring glasses, Danse knows Deacon now stares at him. "Um. Wow. Okay. Can anyone say irony?"

Danse's snort is a violent sound. "Believe me, I know that better than you do."

"So it's true? You're with the Brotherhood?" Glory rounds on him, her black eyes hard. "Let's get one thing straight: you hurt any of my people, I don't care if you're a synth, I will kick your ass."

A stiff nod. "Noted."

The uproar has mostly died down, as Glory's good word again defends him, but many of the Railroad personnel are too twitchy for Danse's liking. None have backed down; only the muzzles of their guns waver, hovering between Danse and the floor. Then someone calls, "How do we know this isn't a trap? This could be a distraction. Check the tunnels!" Several bystanders peel away, bolting not only to the entrance but through a hole in the wall on the far side of the undercroft. Curious, but Danse doesn't have time to consider that now.

Desdemona throws Deacon an inquiring look. Her expression is stony. "What can you tell me?"

Another wayward glance in Danse's direction. He's beginning to tire of those. Deacon says, "I can confirm his story. A high ranking Brotherhood officer went missing about a week ago and has since been declared dead."

"You've been spying on me?" Danse demands, and Nathan tightens his grip on his shoulder as a reminder.

Deacon brushes an invisible speck of lint from his shirt. "Intel's my province, pal. And you're lucky I know infiltration isn't in the Brotherhood's playbook. Unless you're a the key part of a deep game, sending the world's most conspicuous spy with the only cover story that'll hook us in. Right? Right?"

"That's enough, everyone." Desdemona fixes all present with a stern look, starting with Deacon and ending with Danse.

"Dez?" the blue-coated youth asks. His pistol is aimed at the ground.

All attention rests on Desdemona. She looks between Danse and Nathan, assessing, and her mouth thins into a hard line.

Danse braces for the worst.

"I have never turned away a synth in need, and I will not begin today. Unless Danse proves a threat to our operations, he's permitted to be here. Provided he doesn't snoop or interfere."

The blue-coated youth protests, "But Dez—"

"Relax, Drummer Boy." Deacon's smile could illuminate the undercroft on its own. "If we're five minutes from being ass-deep in Brotherhood soldiers, at least it'll be one hell of a party. I'll grab the champagne."

"If the Brotherhood is on its way, it'll be because they're pursuing _us_ ," Nathan says. Then his shoulders tighten.

Danse fights a wince.

Through sheer force of will, the Railroad personnel heed Desdemona's edict and disperse, though by Danse's count at least four continue to observe him from around the room. Nathan is the first to resume his seat, in a show of good faith that strains the last of Danse's nerves, then the others do too. Danse hesitates before following suit. Only Deacon remains in his current position, propped against the pillar.

Desdemona's gaze is flinty as she returns her attention to Danse. "I'm not going to ask what happened with the Brotherhood—you're here, alive. What matters is whether or not they're still a threat to you."

Danse closes his eyes. Grits out, "Maxson will turn a blind eye unless I enter a Brotherhood-controlled zone or am sighted by a patrol." His jaw tightens.

Nathan is likewise agitated, hunching over to knot his hands in a double fist.

Has the Knight been reported MIA? Found dead? What of the Aspirants? Are there squires waiting for a soldier who will never return?

"Nothing a new face and an attitude adjustment won't fix," Deacon mutters, earning a scathing look from Glory.

That sparks a cold rush of defiance. Danse has not survived losing almost everything that ever mattered to be stung by mockery now. He lifts his chin. "Go ahead and laugh at my predicament."

"Someone painting bunnies on your power armor while you're sleeping? That's funny. The Brotherhood turning on you because you don't meet their narrow-minded definition of humanity? Not so much."

A perplexing answer. "How comforting to know there are situations you find too abhorrent to feed your misplaced humor."

Desdemona rubs her temples. Perhaps she regrets permitting this fresh headache into her crypt. "That's one less problem for us, if you're already believed to be dead. We have the resources to keep you hidden if you need to escape the Commonwealth."

Not for the first time, Danse considers the prospect. But Nathan sits at his side, quiet and watchful. Even with his own demons to fight, he's taken the time to assist Danse with his. Danse can return no less. But he would be fooling himself if he said that was the only reason to stay with Nathan. "I can't leave the Commonwealth. I've already made my decision."

Desdemona inclines her head. "Then that's your choice to make."

Nathan also accepts his answer in silence. It's an argument they've fought before, and there's no point excavating it in front of an audience.

"In that case," Desdemona continues, "There are still measures you can take to stay safe. Some places in the Commonwealth—like University Point—are particularly dangerous to synths should you be discovered. You at least are already familiar with the surface. Large settlements give you a greater chance of blending in, but also a higher chance of discovery. Strangers are more noticeable in small settlements, but they may not be up to date with recent happenings across the Commonwealth. Try to avoid settlements along major trade routes—caravans can trade in gossip as well as material goods."

Deacon adds, "Step one: avoid the Brotherhood. Step two: avoid the Institute. Step three: don't advertise your existence."

"They changed the patrol routes," Nathan admits. "That's how we got caught out."

The news is unwelcome but, from the array of grim yet unsurprised expressions, the Railroad are used to handling bad news.

Desdemona's gaze cuts to Deacon. "When you're ready, we need up-to-date information on the Brotherhood's movements."

"No sweat, Dez."

It shouldn't come as a surprise when Deacon is already aware of Danse's AWOL status and supposed execution, but he tenses nonetheless. If the Railroad have any intentions against the Brotherhood, this truce—for lack of a better word—will be terminated. "And what do you plan on doing with that intelligence?"

"Continue to avoid them," Desdemona answers. Her gaze is steady—and clear. "We're already fighting the Institute. Antagonizing the Brotherhood would be picking a fight we can't win."

At least the Railroad has an accurate assessment of the situation. Danse concedes the point, but there's a persistent itch between his shoulder blades. How long have they been monitoring the Brotherhood, and doing so without attracting attention? Just how much do they know?

That isn't the only concerning thought that occurs to him. "By harboring me, you may be putting yourselves at further risk. If Elder Maxson learns of this…"

Glory leans back in her seat and crosses her legs at the ankle. "Ain't tossing you into the cold, soldier boy."

"If dear old Maxson catches wind of us, we'd have bigger problems than just you." Deacon shrugs. "Besides, if this is a way to thumb our noses at him, I am all for it."

"We've taken risks before," Desdemona assures Danse. "This is no different than any other."

Danse can only watch the chorus of agreement, and he's—touched by their unflinching dedication. It's almost like the support he might find— have once found among his brothers and sisters. It takes several moments to regain his voice. "I don't understand why you're willing to face heavy losses for me."

"In case you hadn't noticed," Deacon drawls, "that's kind of what we do here. But if you're looking to pay us back, I would consider it a personal favor if you didn't sell us out to the Brotherhood."

"I'll take that under advisement." If he ever sees Arthur again, it will mean his death. Bartering up the Railroad won't avert that fate. Danse finds himself struck by grief for a friendship lost. No matter his motive, Elder Maxson still permitted Danse to live despite everything, going so far as to falsify reports. But the things Arthur said at the listening post—

Despite himself, Danse blurts, "I'm waiting to feel different than I did before, but I don't."

Glory heaves a sigh, throwing it to the ground like she would an opponent. "Look, I don't know the shit you're going through, learning you're not human. But if you don't feel different, that's because nothing's changed. You are who you are."

Danse holds back a snort, if only just. His mastery over his impulses has long since frayed.

If only he knows who he is anymore.

Deacon shrugs from his post. "If it quacks like a duck."

Glory rolls her eyes. "Real profound shit you've got."

"Thanks. I'm here 'til Tuesday." He shifts against the walls to the sound of crumbling mortar, untroubled by the scowl Danse throws at him. "But puzzle me this: is there only one way to be human?"

Danse's brow furrows further. "What we are isn't natural. Synths aren't born. They're _manufactured._ How is that in any way human?"

Glory says, "We ain't human, but synths are your people. Our people. And they all deserve the same freedom we have."

Danse is on his feet, appalled by the prospect. "Synths are _not_ my people! We are abominations that should never have existed!"

Deacon's expression is opaque. "Why hello, Paladin, sir. Reporting for duty, sir."

Something touches Danse's hand and his head snaps down—it's only Nathan, with sympathy coloring his expression. He doesn't speak loudly, but his words are captivating nonetheless. "Danse. You are not an abomination and neither is Glory or any other synth out there. The Brotherhood fears what it can't control—and they can't tell who's a synth and who's human."

"Amen," Deacon mutters.

"You can deny it if you want, but you're one of us." That's from Glory, who pins him with a narrow-eyed look.

Danse has to look away first.

"Glory," Desdemona chastens, "I know you feel strongly about this, but this is a large and no doubt unwelcome shock to him."

"The Brotherhood teaches that synths are the greatest threat to humanity since the bomb. But…" Danse looks against to Glory, who sits with her spine sloped. No matter her deceptively casual pose, she possesses an undeniable power. And yet, while undoubtedly fierce, she follows only her own will. If she's ever a threat to humanity, it would be because they provoked her into a fight they couldn't win. "I don't know anymore. And that scares me more than anything."

Deacon gives him a thumbs up, of all things. "Doubts are good. They mean you're thinking for yourself."

Danse's head aches in equal parts frustration and fatigue.

"I'm afraid we can't do much more to help right now," Desdemona says, and it takes Danse a moment to realize she's recalling the conversation from its tangent. "If you need a place to sleep tonight, our beds are open to you. But no matter what the Brotherhood told you, you don't deserve to suffer because of what you are."

Once again, Danse is left uncertain how to respond. This is—unlike anything he could have ever anticipated.

"Glory!" Drummer Boy trots to her side, jerking a thumb at over his shoulder. "PAM wants you. Ready for the next op?"

"Am I ever." Rolling to her feet, Glory stretches, tilting her head from one side to the other. Instead of taking the last two steps to her minigun, she turns to Danse and holds out a hand. "Chin up, soldier boy. You've got this."

Her hand is callused and rough from weapons handling, the skin lighter on her palm. There's a strength in her fingers—and not just the kind that permits her to wield her minigun. It's a perfect mimicry of a human's, down to the network of fine wrinkles. Maybe it's more than a mere mimicry.

Danse accepts.

* * *

 **A/N:** Huge thank you to everyone who faved and/or reviewed!


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Bonus chapter! You're welcome.

* * *

Safely installed on a nearby mattress that's tucked away in a corner, Danse and Nathan are hidden from view courtesy of a workbench. While the bed exudes a questionable scent of mold left to dry in the sun, it's big enough to accommodate them both.

Nathan, of course, has to plant himself between Danse and the room at large.

In the undercroft, there are no boundaries between living and training space; no demarcation or any kind of order. No, their goal has seemingly been to fill any available space in as inefficient arrangement as possible. However, there is a shooting range that doubles as a training ring, judging by the marks in the sand. Danse wonders how often they train.

Nathan rests his hand on Danse's knee and squeezes. "Some big surprises tonight. How are you holding up?"

These people couldn't have more effectively disarmed Danse if they took his rifle. "These are the first humans—perhaps the only humans—who wouldn't shoot me for what I am."

Nathan pauses. For a moment he's taken aback—then his answer is unexpectedly short. "What am I, chopped liver? I was _ordered_ to shoot you and I couldn't."

A choice that never ceases to amaze Danse, warming him to his core. "Your bias precludes you from being included."

"'Scuse me? Caring about you makes me _less_ reliable instead of more?"

"I only meant—"

Nathan waves a hand. "Forget it."

The moment hangs awkwardly. Nathan watches the room at large, studiously avoiding Danse's gaze. Danse searches for the right words to explain but draws a blank.

At last, Nathan sighs and shuffles to press his back against the wall. "You should get some rest. Even if you can't sleep, close your eyes and stop thinking for a while." This is a accompanied by a pointed look.

The long hours of Danse's sleep shift are often put to better use planning for contingencies, reviewing his team's progress, considering his next move. Most nights it's less by choice and more because sleep remains elusive—other nights, it's preferable to the dreams. He looks around and doubts he'll ever be comfortable in this place. If they have permitted him to stay despite his rank— _former_ rank, they should pose no threat if he sleeps.

Even so.

"Hey, buddy." Nathan's voice is quiet, matching the weary lines on his face. "I'll keep watch while you sleep, if that's what you need."

Even the briefest inspection betrays Nathan's fatigue, and as his commanding officer it's Danse's duty to look after his team—but then, he isn't Nathan's CO anymore. The thought trembles oddly in his mind, oddly weightless, and Danse recognizes he's hit his limit. "Appreciate it, soldier. Don't hesitate to wake me if there's any hint of trouble."

It's—difficult to relinquish the burden to Nathan. Not because he isn't competent or trustworthy, but because Danse hasn't had anyone to completely rely on. Not since Cutler. His name always leaves a hollow pang in Danse's chest, but time has worn the edges off his bitter grief.

Nathan nods and draws up one knee, settling himself more comfortably for his oncoming watch. Placing his own rifle within easy reach, Danse leans against the wall beside Nathan and closes his eyes. The bricks are cold and hard against the back of his head, but if a soldier can learn to sleep in power armor, they can sleep anywhere. Lying down in this unfamiliar place would require a trust he does not feel.

He doesn't expect to sleep; every ambient noise of the crypt, from sand grinding under boots to murmuring voices, is an alien arrangement of sounds that tightens his nerves. If that isn't enough, the events of the last few days parade across his mind's eye in a continuous loop. From Haylen to the bunker to the patrol to the meeting, over and over.

But underneath it all is a lethargy that creeps through him, leadening his limbs, weighting his head until the circle of thoughts is no longer coherent.

Danse lies against something solid and warm. Awareness returns slowly: a rustle, a quiet breath. Nothing that sets off his instincts. Eventually, it occurs to him those are Nathan's fingers tracing his hairline.

His heart skips in his chest. How can programming distinguish Nathan from all others and react like—this? A glitch, maybe.

Nathan doesn't notice when Danse opens his eyes. It takes several long moments for him to get his bearings, and it soon becomes evident why: he lies on his back with his head in Nathan's lap. Nathan's eyes are closed and a shadow of a hum rides on his breath. Danse startles at their unfamiliar surrounds—but last night's events come crashing back when he sees the nearest lantern. No indication of the hour; he has spent an indeterminate amount of time sleeping.

A part of Danse wants to remain like this—and he's surprised by the strength of the temptation. When he sits up, Nathan's eyes snap open and his hand falls away. Danse rolls his shoulders, feeling the pull in his back. From the stiffness in his muscles, it's evident he slept after all.

"Morning," Nathan rumbles. "At least I think it's still morning." He squints at his pip-boy. Without glasses, he holds it at arm's length to read it. Danse realizes he mustn't have his glasses in his possession. Either at Sanctuary Hills or on the Prydwen; either way, inaccessible since their sudden flight. "Still morning. Feeling any better?"

Now that Danse has spent a few hours asleep, fatigue hangs around him in a half-hearted bid to drag him back under. Any attempts to fight or operate power armor in this state may prove dangerous to more than just his enemies. His head still aches, but the discomfort has lessened from last night. "Fine."

Whether or not Nathan believes him, he rests a hand on the back of Danse's neck.

He has few references for affection. Cutler had been easy with his, offering a slap on the back or an arm around the neck when they survived their latest mishap. Danse's returning touch is tentative at first, but Nathan doesn't appear to mind. It seems Danse has—forgotten how it feels to be close with someone he cares deeply for.

Not once has Nathan wavered. If he harbors doubts about Danse and his synthetic nature, he's kept them to himself. And now, the way Nathan looks at him—

It's all too easy to meet Nathan's mouth halfway with his own. A sharp inhale and Danse's hand curls around the back of Nathan's neck to hold him in place before he quite realizes what he's doing. Nathan's tongue traces his lower lip and Danse mimics the motion, less practiced but still eager. While their kiss isn't heated, there's something nonetheless important about it, in the way Nathan leans into him, the way he smiles against Danse's mouth, the way their hearts crash together.

Nathan withdraws just enough to catch his breath, cocking an eyebrow. That playful look is back in his eye and Danse's heart stutters again. "Not bad given neither of us have brushed our teeth yet. Not bad at all. One of the things I love about you."

Every thought in Danse's head stops. "You—love me?"

"Uh... screw it." He squares shoulders and draws in a breath. "Yeah, I do."

Danse can barely keep himself from gaping. "After everything the Brotherhood taught you, and you still…"

"I've already defied Elder Maxson once, right? Going against their teachings is worth it for you."

"I don't understand how—that is—I'm a machine, Nathan."

"How did the Institute ever recreate the human body and mind? And if they managed that, what says they didn't recreate the human soul while they're at it? Hell if I know. All I know is I've seen you protect your guys with everything you have. I've seen you hoard comics as much as I do." Suddenly impish, Nathan adds, "And, occasionally, I've seen you smile."

Typical. "I'll smile when there's something to smile about."

"Like when a handsome man tells you he loves you?"

"Not any man, but you." The corners of Danse's mouth kick up and, taking the initiative, he cuts off Nathan's cheer with another kiss, this one an affirmation. When they part, Danse asks, "If you aren't bothered by loving a machine, then I'm curious: what _do_ you think about me being a synth?"

"I'm still here, aren't I?"

Danse chuckles, and while it's weary, it's genuine nonetheless. "I have eyes, soldier. But that doesn't answer my question."

Nathan draws in a slow breath to buy a few moments to think. "Look, occasionally when I think too much it gets weird for a moment. But then when I look at you, I just see Danse."

"I'm glad," he says before he can catch himself.

Nathan smiles. "Good to hear it."

Danse tries to recollect his thoughts. "I have to be honest with you: I don't know what this means, for either of us. I've lost my place in the Brotherhood, the Institute is still a threat, and now there's all this." He gestures to the room at large. "There's a lot to come to terms with. It won't be easy for me. Or likely for you."

Nathan nods. "I know. But I'm ready for whatever the Commonwealth can throw at us next."

Dangerous words, all things considered, but Danse appreciates the sentiment. "First, you should get some rest."

Nathan has fewer reservations, and in a few minutes is asleep with his head drooping on Danse's shoulder. The crypt is as bustling as it was last night, with people coming and going; their ranks are comprised of half-starved youth and grizzled old dogs, all furtive and grim, and a simple glance around betrays no clues as to who's human and who's machine.

Since no incidents occurred while Danse was sleeping, he's forced to concede the Railroad upheld their promise of safety. Less than a fortnight ago he would have gladly wiped this place off the map in the Brotherhood's name, and there's an itch in the back of his mind to do so anyway, as a paladin should, regardless of his exile. Now they're the only people willing to harbor him. This particular dose of irony is unpleasant and, scanning the room once more, his old certainty cracks.

So Danse sits and thinks.

Some time later, last night's spy—the one Nathan knows at least in passing—pokes around a stack of crates and approaches their corner. Danse sits straighter, to a wordless grumble from Nathan. If not for him currently employing Danse's arm as a pillow, Danse would be on his feet. He studies Deacon's face, seeking any hint of familiarity, but recognition eludes him.

"Good morning, sunshine— aww, look at that. He's sleeping! Cute snores, by the way. Chow time." Deacon tosses the first tin at Nathan's lap. Danse snaps out a hand to catch it before it connects, and he intercepts the next tin as well. Deacon huffs an exaggerated sigh and shoves his hands in his pockets. "You're a killjoy, you know that?"

Danse keeps Deacon in view at all times while waking Nathan and passing him breakfast. Tinned rations taste the same wherever one goes; Danse never thought Cram would be somehow comforting. A touch of familiarity among the upheaval.

Deacon also shows them to the latrine. On their return to the central area of headquarters, Drummer Boy trots past, stopping just long enough to report, "Guess who's back? She's out the front, talking to Dez." He runs before being dismissed, and Danse permits himself a moment of amusement at the insubordination.

Deacon twists to see around the pillars, his body practically straining in the direction of the entrance. "Oh look, someone called in the cavalry." He turns back and shoots them both a stern look, accompanied by a ridiculous finger wagging. "You are about to meet the greatest person in the world. Best behavior, both of you."

Nathan grins. "I'm always on my best behavior."

Danse looks at him sidelong.

" _What?_ "

Deacon cups a hand to his mouth and calls, "Over here, Barbs!"

A slender figure in a dark coat weaves between the tombs, shedding bags and equipment. Her fawn skin is dusty from trekking through the city, as is the black hair she loosens from its braid. While decently armed, her actions are those of one who does not expect to fight here, which could be used against her. The woman looks to Deacon, who watches her back with the corners of his mouth twitching upward, and the moment between them stretches long enough that Danse is inexplicably uncomfortable.

When she sees Danse and Nathan, her smile changes somehow to something polite. She drops into the chair Glory occupied last night while Deacon leans against the pillar behind her, in her blind spot, half-shadowed by the placement of lanterns. If his close proximity bothers her, she doesn't show it. Danse and Nathan take their own seats with less hesitation than before.

That now-familiar flicker of unease at yet another stranger knowing about him is quashed at the first words out of her mouth: "Hi, I'm Barbara and I'm a synth."

Danse sucks in a sharp breath. He looks her over more thoroughly, from her thick boots to her bland clothes to the hunting rifle she props against the side of her chair. As always, there's no trace of her make except for the certainty in her gray-green eyes. "You admit that easily."

Barbara's gaze is steady. Crow's feet have been scored around her prominent eyes from hard living, lending her an air of solemnity despite the laugh lines around her mouth. "This may be the only place in the Commonwealth, maybe the world, where it's safe to to say it out loud. Now, I understand one of you just learned you're the synth too?"

From the way her gaze bounces between Danse and Nathan, it becomes clear she can't distinguish synth from human by looking. It's oddly reassuring. Danse clears his throat. "That is correct. Nothing in my memories betrayed what I am."

Barbara nods. Her expression grows distant. "Same here. I've been where you are. If there's anything I can answer, let me know."

"You allowed the Railroad to modify your memories?" It's a perverse relief to know Danse isn't the only one weak enough to have undergone the procedure.

She raises her hands, then drops them to her lap. "Must have. I don't remember anything about the Institute. But from what Glory's said about it, maybe that's not an entirely bad thing."

He leans forward, intent on this woman and the answers she offers. "If the Railroad did this to me, are there records about me?"

"I already checked with the doc. Our contact doesn't keep that kind of information. Too risky, you know?"

His mouth presses into a hard line. "So there's no way to ever regain my real memories?"

Barbara looks just past him, worrying at a ring on her finger. "I've done some investigating and—there are some synths for whom the mem job didn't quite take. Dreams, flashbacks, that sort of thing. But if you've had none of those then no. They're never coming back. Bottom line is, our lost memories will stay lost."

Danse quashes the disappointment viciously. If he could just remember the truth, maybe recall some intel on the Institute, then he could gain something useful out of it—but this is all pointless speculation. "I don't even know how many of my memories are even mine."

Barbara's lips thin as she rubs her temples. She sighs. "I don't know either. I've got it narrowed down to three possibilities. My memories were of a caravaner weaving in and out of the Commonwealth—good for not arousing suspicion, bad for figuring out when my new life really started. If you want to try, walk it back—every year you know for sure was real. Every week. Day by day, if you have to. Eventually you hit a gray area where you don't know anymore, and anything before then may or may not have happened."

All Danse's years in the Brotherhood, his misadventures before that with Cutler—it has to be real. But before meeting his old friend…

"If your contact destroyed my true memories," Danse says, and his voice is rougher than he would prefer, "why not give me a comfortable childhood? A family?"

The scores around Barbara's eyes deepen. "Would you have preferred to have memories of a family only to learn they never existed?"

Danse opens his mouth to respond—and hesitates. His second retort dies on his tongue, as does the third. This reframing attempts to make it a _good_ thing that he grew up alone in the Wasteland. But had it been otherwise—he still wouldn't have had something real, like Nathan did.

He'd never considered that before.

It occurs to Danse, then, that not only were Barbara's memories falsified by the Railroad, but that she too has since learned she's a synth.

She notices his moment of hesitation. "Whatever it is, just say it."

"How—did you learn of your true nature?"

Barbara's face hardens in the waxy lamplight, her eyes narrowing as she lifts her chin a fraction of an inch. Behind her, Deacon coils and crosses his arms over his chest, his face blank. "When an anti-synth gang arrived at my doorstep to lynch me."

"What did you do afterward?"

Her level gaze never wavers. "I tracked down the rest of them and burnt their hideout to the ground."

That merits a reassessment of Barbara's abilities, especially if she did so without backup.

Oblivious to Danse's raised eyebrow, she continues, "The Railroad contacted us afterward. As it happens, taking out a bunch of synth haters is an easy way to attract their attention."

"Us?" Nathan repeats. While he's been quiet so far, he has clearly been paying attention.

Barbara points over her shoulder to the tense shadow looming behind her. "Deacon and I."

Interesting. There must be some attachment between them if he was offered a place alongside her, especially if he had no involvement in the preceding events. Barbara neglected to mention his place during all this.

Her circumstances are as bad as Danse's own, stoking a strange camaraderie between them. At least he'd had the certainty of a clean execution; raiders had no such standards. Her expression is distant, haunted, while Deacon is utterly still behind her. So Danse feels obligated to offer his own story in return. "I found out when my DNA was a match from a list of rogue synths acquired from the Institute."

"The Brotherhood felt the need to test their own people to make sure they're not synths? Yikes." Deacon's smile is incredulous as he shakes his head. "And here I thought I was paranoid enough for an entire organization. Clearly I'm not trying hard enough."

"Try any harder and you're never going to sleep again," Barbara mutters.

"Evidently, the Brotherhood wasn't wrong," Danse retorts. "If I remained undetected for years, the Institute could have easily infiltrated our ranks."

"But," Barbara cocks her head on the side, "if you didn't know, if the Railroad already gave you the mem job, you can't be an infiltrator now. Therefore you weren't a danger to the Brotherhood, no matter what they say about our kind."

How can a near-stranger recognize what Arthur Maxson, someone he'd counted as a friend, had supported for years, couldn't?

Barbara's face turns grim. "And this list in the Brotherhood's possession? It puts every free synth in grave danger. Hell, it's already put _you_ in danger. How likely is it the Brotherhood might impose DNA checks on the people of the Commonwealth?"

Danse snorts. "We're at war. Right now the Brotherhood couldn't waste the resources attempting to cajole insubordinate civilians into submitting to medical exams."

"But after," she presses. "If the Brotherhood won? What then?"

"Elder Maxson never spoke of such plans to me but, admittedly, once he had the list in his possession, I no longer counted among his confidantes. It's possible he might try, but I imagine the pushback from the local population would be severe." From the moment Recon Squad Gladius stepped foot in the Commonwealth, there has been resistance from an astounding number of places every step of the way.

Barbara and Deacon share a look. Behind them, across the crypt, Desdemona stands at the blackboard consulting with the doctor. Their voices are too hushed to carry, but their tight expressions speak loudly enough. How the Railroad expects to survive the year is a mystery.

Barbara leans forward in her seat, her expression becoming intent. "We've been talking. Or rather, the others have; I'm a latecomer to the conversation. Someone with your capabilities—and yours," she nods to Nathan, "could do a lot of good in the Railroad. There's a place for you here, if you want it."

Danse can hardly believe what he's hearing. They can't be _serious!_ Refuge is one thing, but actively aiding the Railroad would betray the Litany he swore to uphold.

Absurd.

With her offer comes the realization Danse still doesn't have a plan for moving forward, but enough of last night's desperation has dimmed that he can think clearly again. Perhaps this hasn't been a complete waste of time. "I can't possibly accept. But I—thank you for your hospitality. We won't take any more of your time or resources."

Barbara accepts his answer gracefully. "No problem. You need another hand, you know where to find us. Good luck out there."

"Don't forget to send a postcard!" Then Deacon's smile retreats as he adds, "And stay safe. Watch each other's backs."

"You bet," Nathan answers.

It's only proper to inform Desdemona of their imminent departure. She glances past Danse, presumably to someone across the room, and her expression shifts just slightly. "You aren't staying, I see. Be safe out there, both of you."

Again with the concern. Danse hasn't done anything to deserve the sentiment from them.

Danse turns to leave, but notices Barbara and Deacon standing together between the pillars, speaking intently—then Barbara lifts her hand to his cheek. Whatever he is saying dies as he leans into her touch. The moment is clearly of a personal nature, so Danse averts his gaze.

As they climb the stairs to the church, Danse shakes his head. "I can't believe they attempted to recruit me."

Nathan's mouth curves up at the corners—he's _amused,_ of all things. "Why wouldn't they want an experienced soldier or two in their ranks?"

Danse shoves at a piece of rubble blocking his path. "I can't claim to know the minds of those who would go to such lengths to protect synths."

"No? Putting your life on the line to protect your own? That doesn't ring any bells? They protect synths; you're a protector."

Danse is about to protest, but the image of those three trembling synths springs to mind.

There's still a great deal of uncertainty, as well as a great deal of conflict regarding the future of the Commonwealth—and his place in it. Yet Danse feels lighter exiting the church with Nathan than he did entering it.


End file.
